‘Who said romance was dead?’ Jackie Steel sniffed at the floral bouquet and sneezed. Hay-fever and a hangover greeted the first of April: her 30th birthday.Last night it had been dashing Detective Constable Paul James who had carried her across the palace threshold at midnight. Today, the palace was her apartment in Bridleton that needed a coat of paint, and her hero had transformed into an ashen-faced entity, huddled in a pink Paisley dressing gown. It matched her blue one.Paul grunted. ‘Don’t forget the pendant. Cost me a packet.’Jackie felt a twinge of guilt, which made her feel queasy. She put a hand to her neck. ‘It’s ... lovely.’ She choked. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’Paul started to mutter to himself while she rushed to the bathroom and heaved up into the toilet pan.Never again.Then she heard the phone ring. She pressed the flush lever, and wiped her chin with toilet paper while Paul was answering it. He called out. ‘Debi Franks wants a word.’Jackie frowned, and then smiled. A name from the past: Vice squad, Metropolitan Police. She stumbled back into the kitchen and took the phone from Paul’s outstretched hand.‘Hello.’‘Jackie ... it’s been ages. How are you?’‘Debi? … Is that you?’ It sounded like the voice she remembered; the Home Counties accent. She glanced at Paul. He was out of it, staring blankly at a cold cup of coffee.She heard the chortle at the other end. ‘Yes, it’s me … and … well … is this a good time?’‘Debi … I’m recovering. Unless it’s a hangover cure…’‘Really? What happened?’‘The big “Three-O” birthday has arrived. Yesterday was my last as a twenty-something.’And so it went on. Debi could talk for England. Welcome to the club; men; biological clock ticking; men……Jackie switched off — Debi had exhausted the platitudes and was explaining something. ‘…the reason I’m phoning … is … I have a proposition to put to you.’Jackie heard the pulsating rhythm of the bathroom shower; water in full flow. She looked at the kitchen clock with a wonky second hand; nearly eleven. One hour to opening time and welcome to the “hair of the dog”. Her stomach started to gurgle like a clapped-out washing machine; maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to book an early lunch at the Blacksmith’s Arms. Whatever Debi was going to ask, she wasn’t up for it.‘Can it wait?’‘This is a one-off, Jackie. Your name cropped up. Fancy a secondment?’‘Secondment? Are you kidding?’Debi sounded sincere. ‘It’s an investigation, your patch. Duty Free is the code name.’Duty Free? What the hell?‘I get it. It’s a wind-up … an April fool’s joke.’‘This is no joke, it’s as serious as it gets, believe me.’Jackie’s head throbbed. It was all too much to take in. ‘Debi … even if I was interested … I’ve got an important court case coming up. I’d never get the time off.’Debi wasn’t fazed. ‘That would be taken care of ... it has already been sounded out; you’re perfect for the role.’The shower stopped. She needed to get herself sorted. ‘Debi … the answer’s no… sorry, but I can’t deal with it right now.’Debi started to press the buttons. ‘Jackie ... we have an underage girl in protective custody following a paedophile ring tip-off with links to the Bristol area. Ana is a refugee from Romania; we found her semi-conscious in a cellar in Paddington. Her sexual organs have been mutilated.’Jackie’s stomach heaved. Last night’s excesses being whipped into a whirlpool by Debi’s indictment. ‘No ... no ... I’m not listening.’Debi was relentless. ‘We also found home videos: amateur stuff; three snuff movies, all featuring live girls ... until their throats were cut.’The gurgling in Jackie’s stomach became a torrent of hot bile. She rushed to the kitchen sink and threw up the last of the excesses.A whole heap of stinking vomit dumped on my doorstep.

‘Open it up.’The command Sonja Borski had been dreading. The Customs officer, a large florid-looking man, was pointing to the back of her HGV — Tulips from Amsterdam emblazoned on the side. She glanced into her rear-view mirror. In her lane, a long queue of container trucks, transit vans and minibuses were lined up behind.Headed by Davros and three of his comrades.He would be watching her. They had chosen the Easter bank-holiday weekend when traffic returning from Europe would be high and UK customs would be stretched. The odds of being searched were minimal, but they had prepared for the “worst-case” scenario. The cargo was too valuable to lose. She opened the cab door and climbed down into the spring sunshine to the ozone smell of the sea, and the sounds of shrieking seagulls. She crouched, to tie-up her shoelace. That was the signal.Behind her, she heard a minibus door open; curses, a shout of alarm, and the sound of breaking glass. The diversion: a sprawling, drunken fight that heralded the sweet-sounding symphony of vehicle horns as patience gave way to panic.The Customs officer looked startled. He began to jabber into his mobile, calling for back-up. He thrust Sonja’s documents back into her hand, pointed towards the Exit sign, and shouted at her to move on.‘Shift yourself into gear, lady … go, go, go.’Music to her ears. She was through. So was her cargo.But she wasn’t only carrying tulips…

Today I read that the UK was going to be colder than Russia this week, with snow and ice right down the country. Here in Chiang Mai it's been another warm day, with cloudless skies - just the weather for sun-bathing by the pool, or sitting on the balcony imbibing a cold beer.So my G/F decided it was a good day to see a movie. John Wick 2 was showing, and it had received great reviews - more body count than its predecessor, which meant a lot of bad-men being killed. The movie has a great soundtrack and is best seen on a large cinema screen, not a TV to appreciate the full effect.There are many plus points for an action thriller:-- the storyline was cleverly constructed (within its limitations)- good acting throughout - even the dog- black humour - some really laughable- met the expectations of being fast and furious, with hardly a dull scene- modern, without the need for futuristic weaponry - JW killed a couple using a pencil.- exemplary fight stunts, absolutely first-rate. All in all, streets ahead of Bond movies, and well deserved. My reflections - escapism, entertaining, and an ending that opens up for a JW 3. Tip's reflections, apart from finger shooting everyone in the cinema - if I was John Wick's wife I'd be sitting by the phone waiting for someone to call me to say he's dead. And Keanu Reeves got a stunt double or three? - don't like him anymore.***And moving on to an evening movie watching on large-screen Smart TV. This one, Hacksaw Ridge, based on a true story. A few embellishments regarding the hero, Desmond Doss, a conscientious objector who was drafted into the US army in 1942. His words - "I felt like it was an honor to serve God and country," Desmond said. "We were fightin' for our religious liberty and freedom." The movie relates to the allied invasion of Okinawa (an island off Japan) which was the third tour DD undertook. As a preamble, the movie begins slowly (for those seeking bloodthirsty action) of DD growing up to be the man he was, and some dramatic liberty was taken to depict his character/behaviour - and even his wife to be. Not all true, but hey, good movie entertainment.The battle scenes are horrific, not for those with sensitivities at seeing heads and limbs blown off throughout. Blood, guts and rats. There was no give and take in this invasion - the Japanese were ready to die to the last man, and the US did just that.DD was a medic, unwilling to carry a gun, and not to work on a Sabbath but caring for victims was his Christian rationale for his deployment (saving lives). After a lull in the battle, DD lowered down from the top of the ridge between 50 (his estimate) and one hundred (US army estimate) of injured soldiers to the medi-vacs below before he got injured and had to end his tour. Later, President Truman awarded him America's highest award, the medal of honour for his bravery.My reflections, despite some fiction mixed with true facts even with invasion embellishments, were a whole lot different than mine of JW2, as were my G/F, who said he was a good man. I had to agree, he was a very brave man who deserves his place in history.

PETCHABOON: -- A woman in the northern province Phetchaboon was arrested last month for cutting off her husband’s penis and throwing it into a trash can at the local bus station.

Buariow Wannarat, 54, was caught at a police checkpoint while on a bus to Bangkok. Police escorted her back to Phetchaboon Town to point out the trash receptacle where she discarded her man’s member.

Meanwhile, her husband, 40-year-old Sawang Wannarat, was taken to Lom Sak Hospital, where he was last reported as being in a stable condition.

Mrs Buariow told police that she had been married for 21 years: when she was 33 and Mr Sawang was a sprightly 19.

Recently, however, Mr Sawang started to treat her very badly, drinking heavily and shouting at her in public, she said. There was also gossip going around town that he was seeing other women.

On September 14, Mrs Buariow was drinking beer with friends near her house when Mr Sawang walked up and began shouting at her that she was cheating on him.

He said he was going to leave her and made her prostrate herself at his feet.

Around 10am the next day, Mrs Buariow was still enraged by the loss of face. While out buying her husband’s breakfast, she stopped off at the pharmacy to get some sleeping pills.

She mixed some of the pills in Mr Sawang’s morning drink, gave it to him and waited for them to take effect.

While Mr Sawang was sound asleep, Mrs Buariow sliced off his penis and put it in a plastic bag. She then took a bus from their house in Lom Sak to Phetchaboon Town Bus Station, where she threw the organ in a trash can before boarding a bus to Bangkok.

She was stopped by police in Nong Phai District, which borders Muang District to the south.

After making Mrs Buariow tell them where she threw the penis, police sent the organ to Lom Sak Hospital so doctors could try and reattach it.

At the time of writing it was still unclear whether Mr Sawang would regain any use of his severed manhood.

Thai doctors are world-renowned for the expertise in reattaching severed penises.

Knowing this, some of those responsible for the cutting have taken extra precautions to make such surgery impossible. Severed members have been boiled, fed to ducks or even attached to hot air balloons in the past.

Tiny and Dido are sitting in their shit-holeuntidy apartment, discussing the World Cloud monthly comp. It is 11a.m. Tiny is wearing a string vest and Panama shorts, and Dido — for God’s sake, darling, at least put on a t-shirt. This is a family programme. Set an example to our younger viewers.There is a titter of laughter, a few whistles, and cat-calls from the mostly-male audience.Okay. Action.***‘Have I got it right, babe? Say it again.’‘Start with a reunion, you jerk-off.’‘Big word, babe.’‘So is reunion, hon. Want me to spell it?’‘Nah, I got this Dick-shun-entity. Here it is. Meaning like when I go and meet my mates down the Wonky Donkey. Like now.’***I think we got carried away, there, Dido. “Jerk-off” shouldn’t be accompanied by an inappropriate hand action. And I don’t care if Samantha did it in Game on. We’re PC nowadays. She did what? Really?The audience resorts to name-calling, and the director signals for quiet.Okay, okay, I’ll leave it in.Action.***‘Mary’s funeral’s at three, hon. Friends I’ve not seen for ages. That will be a proper reunion.’‘Soddin’ won’t. You said start with a reunion. And you think me staring at some wooden box for an hour while some vicar is yakkin’ about how we should all celibate…celibate..?‘Celebrate, hon.’‘That’s right. Sink a few pints to get us in the mood.’***The director wraps up that scene. Several cans of Special-Brew are consumed. Tea is served by a lady best-suited in a boxing ring Dido’s flat-mate.Hisses and boos from the audience. More cat-calls.Clearly, the scene was rapturously received, and the director calls for quiet.Action.***‘There’s more, hon.’‘Yeah, that soppy song. What is it?’‘You-never-did-care-about-the-little-things. But I do, hun — it’s not that small, anyway.’‘You takin’ the piss? Because if you are, I’ll…’‘A wasp!’‘What?’‘No, wasp…fuck it. You deaf, dickhead?’***Dido explains in one word syllables that Tiny’s brain is in his tiny dick. Dido is concerned that Tiny cannot hear her properly. The furniture is moved closer, a silent clock replaces the ticking one, and a can of fly-spray is sited handily on the sideboard alongside a picture of Dido’s flat-mate. Perfect.The audience is asked to quieten down or they will be replaced with cardboard cut-outs. Immediately. A threat that’s not taken seriously for obvious reasons. Nevertheless, there is an audible reduction in noise.Okay, let’s get on with it.Action.***‘A wasp landed on your head, hon.’‘Eh?’‘Don’t move.’‘I’m…’‘I said, DON’T MOVE. NOR SHRUG. NOR FART.’‘I’m…’‘Hold it. There. Got the bugger.’***At this point it should be stated that no insect got harmed in this scene. Unfortunately, this episode has been postponed until Tiny has recovered from inhaling a chemical substance contained in the bug spray. Dido has been cautioned.The audience are shouting, “take off your shirt.” Dido repeats the hand action.THE END. 499 words.

I eat fish once a week to supplement my otherwise vegetarian diet of thirty years. Why? My ex told me I looked jaundiced on my first visit to Thailand (she called it yellow skin), and that eating fish would resolve it. As she came from a fishing family, I took her advice. But eating the head and eyes like she did, was out.

Easier said than done. I hate the smell of fish whether it's old or overcooked and it took me six months of gagging to overcome that.

Which brings me to the first time I tasted trout at the UN compound in Islamabad. Every Friday they ran a buffet dinner with open entry to Aid workers, and this one Friday in 2006, trout was on the menu. A whole fish, head dispatched, and I filleted it like a true expert. Superb, and where the UN got it from, I hadn't a clue. And it never reappeared on the menu after that.

Back to Thailand, where local freshwater fish, like tilapia (nile perch) are tasty and cheap, and I even came to terms with looking forward to my Friday lunchtime fish and chips. But just before Xmas our favourite Italian restaurant had a special marked up on the noticeboard.

Trout.

For about seven quid a fillet, mash, peas and green beans and indeed a delight, but never does it surpass my UN trout. I believe it to be part of the Royal project in Chiang Mai where freshwater trout are 'farmed' by the impoverished Hill-tribe people and sold in our local markets. I believe the 'season' will finish soon, but hey, it's been a splendid change.

Footnote: I gave up eating meat and fish in the early 60's. Cranks was the first vegetarian restaurant opened in London in 1961, and I made a daily lunchtime visit from my office near Trafalgar square to sample their wares,but there were others in the UK before that one. Somehow, at the time, the very name attracted a regular clientele. It was the start of a new-wave revolution by baby-boom youngsters brought up on carnivore dinners.P.S In certain areas of Chiang Mai, mostly the old city surrounded by temples on all sides, a number of vegan, vegetarian, and whole food mini-restaurants abound. Often, as I walk past them to the Lost Books second-hand store, around lunchtime they are full of tourists. Some are young backpackers of both genres covered in tattoos (which seems to be the fashion nowadays, replacing the men's Muslim beards) but also many European couples of mature years. I guess a protein shake would be on offer, as are herbal health drinks and green tea.

As for replacing meat, my body no longer demands it - but this blog is more than that - it's mainly about enjoying life. Which does include a pint or three.

We were downing burgers and beers at Arizona Joe’s, a newly-opened restaurant in Chiang Mai when I spotted the map. Couldn’t miss it, really, as it straddled a back wall...

…I’d known Sasha since kindergarten. We were eighteen-year old virgins – had the world at our feet - and she oozed appeal. I was hooked. Played it cool, though.‘It’s too darn cold in Chicago,’ I said. ‘I’m going get me a motor, and head for LA. Wanna come for the ride?’She gave me a grin. Had a gap in her front tooth. Sexy. ‘Oh, Baby,’ she said, ‘when we going?’That was it.Kids games, but as I kissed her goodnight with a promise to see her the next day, I’d made my decision. ‘Be ready when I call,’ I said, and she could see my eyes weren’t joking.She nodded, not the one to spurn an adventure. ‘I’ll be waiting,’ she said.By mid-morning I’d ‘borrowed’ a second-hand Chevy from my uncle’s car lot, packed her bag in the trunk and headed west out on Route 66. Early evening we hit Springfield, Illinois, stopped at a gas station and bought a map while we gulped down two cokes and a bag of fries.‘Close to 300 miles,’ I said, fingering the map. ‘You tired?’She smiled, ran her fingers up my arm. ‘Find a motel,’ she said. It was a knowing look.We became lovers that night, and by next morning we were adults.With responsibilities.L.A. was over 2,000 miles away. Two weeks on the road, and it just wasn’t the right time.We made a pact.After graduation, we’d do the whole trip – St Louis, Tulsa, Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, and on to L.A. where we’d lounge on the beach for a while, dump the hire-car and fly back to the Windy City.Sasha called home, fessed up, said she’d visited a friend and would be back soon, and I did the same.Two kids later, Route 66 was swallowed up by highways and we never made the trip.When we retired, I took her to Thailand instead…

… ‘See that,’ I said, pointing to the wall. ‘Goddamn route 66.’Sasha grinned. Still had the toothy gap between her dentures. She reached for my wheelchair. ‘Let’s go take a look, Baby’ she said. ‘I’ll push you along the route.’‘That would be nice,’ I said.

Author

Bio: British age 74 (young) retired and living in Thailand. Profession, Charity Auditor working in some 40 countries over the last ten years before retiring. Familiar with writing reports to professional standard. Sense of humour, reserved, realist and down to earth. Enjoy writing with a passion for the unusual.Genre: Fiction crime Email: stephenterry747@hotmail.comPhone: 0066823250835 Thailand